


How Lies Work

by RighteousHate



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, DEAL WITH IT, M/M, Tattoos, at least kind of, first-person, i really have no idea what this is, not really too coherent but well that's not how I roll, something about Eames' past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 12:31:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4564758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RighteousHate/pseuds/RighteousHate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Eames' tattoos.<br/>A story about Eames's parents.</p>
<p>It's really just a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Lies Work

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just me rambling about Eames' tattoos and about some of his background.

I.

The tattoos – contrary to common believe and what Eames likes to tell others – have no meaning. None of them. Maybe if you’re feeling very sappy and think there _have_ to be stories that could be told about how Eames acquired them, I could spin one about how he got his first.

 

Thing is, and I firmly believe that there are many that forget, most get tattoos not because they want them to mean something, but because they simply want one. The reasons why they get the tats vary, of course. There are those that genuinely think they’re going to love having a tribal inked above their arse for their whole life. Then there are the ones that started out getting a tiny tiny cross and then suddenly ended up a whole sleeve in colour with dragons, more flowers that could ever fit in my house and already thinking about getting the next arm done. I don’t think I’ll have to talk much about the ones acquired when being so pissed that getting an outdated internet meme seems like the best idea in the world.

 

Eames, for all that he is an incredibly well-behaved individual and no one could ever think of him as something else but an upstanding citizen, had gotten his first tattoo in a bout of rebellion against his parents. Cliché, yes, I know. Eames prefers to tell people different stories; so many that I hardy can keep track of them. So, I have to apologize, but instead of a colourful description of how young Eames (Charles, Eddy, Richard, Eric, David, Christopher,… take your pick) saved an abandoned boy from child prostitution, or how his favourite horse – Heisenberg – had died and so he had been forced to walk for the first time in his life, I’m going to tell you what is true. Or as true as it can ever get. Remember, it’s Eames we’re talking about. He’s ridiculous.

 

Eames did not grow up the son of a baron and his mistress, as much as the absence of any ability to dress himself properly would suggest it. Eames‘ parents had lived in their little town since they were born. Eames’s parents also were rather boring. The decent kind of people, not too selfless, nor too selfish. There wasn’t much of a ‘ _too_ ’ when it came to describing them at all, to be quite honest. Very average. Honestly quiet lives. And they were content. They didn’t enjoy themselves too much either, though. The only _too_ ’ _s_ you’d find in their lives was in relation to their son. He was _too_ rowdy. _Too_ intelligent. _Too_ quiet. _Too_ many stupid decisions. _Too_ disobedient. _Too_ good at reading others and being obedient only when he absolutely has to be in order to avoid _too_ much of a punishment. And for little Eames (Oliver, John, George), having parents that who did nothing and had nothing of any kind in the superlative, life was absolutely, utterly, indescribably, horribly boring.

 

So Eames got a tattoo.

 

It was a dragon, curled up on the inside of his arm and gave him a wonderful excuse to pose in front of the mirror. It also earned him an unhappy grimace from his mother and a scoff from his father. They weren’t too overjoyed, but neither they were too angry with him. And Eames started to despair about the fact that he had two _too_ -less persons as parents. How very unfair.

* * *

  


 II.

Something that has to always be remembered about Eames is that the stories about him are untrue. All of them. Even when I tell you that he took a shit yesterday it would be a lie. He didn’t. He took a shit the day before yesterday. Maybe. Probably. Who knows. Fact is, the only one who can tell the truth about Eames is Eames. Unfortunately for storytellers such as me, he isn’t very inclined to do so. Or maybe it’s not that much of an infortune. Because if we knew the truth about Eames or whatever this true name is, how interesting would he be? We don’t tell stories about people like Eames’ parents. And if we do, it’s because they’re Eames‘ parents. Why would anyone bother to tell a story that’s completely true about someone who already has told you the truth beforehand? It’s boring and has absolutely no need for any kind of imagination.

 

But still, my point is that telling stories about Eames is exactly that: stories. Do not believe a word I’m saying. Maybe believe me more than you would believe Eames, but that’s about it. Do you want to know why? Because I lied. The first tattoo was absolutely insignificant.

 

It’s the second tattoo we should be talking about. And here’s how Eames got it:

 

He was drunk out of his mind and contemplating to get a meme tattooed on his ankle. Success Kid, to be exact. And the artist complied. Or so Eames thought. He probably should have gotten slightly suspicious when the needle didn’t even go near his ankle.

 

The next morning, he woke up with the Virgin Mary inked on his left shoulder.  


* * *

  


III.

And if you did think „wait, stop! Success Kid was 2007, that doesn’t even make remotely sense. What a travesty. What a plot hole“ I am very proud of you. Because I had to google when Success Kid started and you apparently know the internet better than me. 

 

So you're still paying attention. Good! 

IV.  


Let’s get back to Eames‘ childhood. So, apart from the incredibly, insanely, terribly boring parents, the also had rather dull teachers and even duller classmates. And if you think it got better when he grew up, nah… you’re wrong. People are very dull. Repetitive.

 

For example, there was Katie. Katie was a walking cliché. Glasses, always books in her satchel, always her hand in the air when the teacher asked a question (not that he particularly minded… this way, he got called on far less often than he would have otherwise). No friends. Quiet, and with hair that probably should have gotten washed last night. She never laughed when she wasn't reading. And even while her eyes were glued to the pages, the most she did was stiffle a short giggle.

 

Very few wanted to talk to Katie, because Katie hadn’t understood a very simple thing about life: People might say they find intelligence attractive, but the truth is that they are only attracted to people who have a similar IQ. Should you dare to have live on a higher level of intelligence than them, they will grow uncomfortable around you. And they will dislike you. Very much so. And this is exactly what happened with Katie. Poor poor Katie. You just don’t read strategy in class.

 

The thing is, there’s the other way too, though. If people deem themselves more intelligent than you, they will ignore you and stop to take you seriously. Which, as Eames had found out rather early in his nice little career of an international criminal which an incredibly broad skillset, is rather useful if you want to get away with stuff.

 

People are quite easy to put into categories. They very rarely vary (try say that three times in a row. I dare you). 12-year old Eames was very sure of that. He had had twelve years of watching them run around and being predictable. So horribly predictable.

 

And then he one day ran into Katie after school. Katie, who was laughing openly, loudly and surrounded by friends.

 

_Huh_.  


* * *

  


V.  


If you ask Eames, I’m sure he’d tell you that he had emerged from his mother’s womb fully clothed in a shirt that clashed with his trousers and an incredible genius for stealing things.

 

Do not believe him.

 

The only thing he came out of his mother’s womb with was the umbilical cord. And some other stuff, but let’s not get graphic here.

 

At thirteen years old, his incredible genius for stealing things did make appearance and it did have its uses, though. Mostly when it came to art supplies. Because those are ridiculously expensive. Like, really really expensive. And occasionally (only a few times a week, really! He was tame back then) to quicky help someone getting rid of things. Only things they - in his opinion - didn't need anyway. He was an upstanding citizen, remember!

 

He also used it to get some drugs, but that’s not the point. His short stint as a dealer was over before he turned seventeen and hadn’t even lasted a full year.

 

He had been good at it, though.

 

At thirteen, the only type of markings on his skin were where he had used his mother’s sewing needle and a sharpie to get at least some kind of colour beneath his skin. That it could result in skin cancer (or at least the teachers had said so. Who trusts teachers? They try to stop everything fun, so Eames had stopped listening to them pretty early on) did not bother him at all.

 

It did look good, though. Maybe we should count those as his first tattoos, but they kind of are hard to keep track of, especially since the only source I have is a rather unreliable one.

 

Eames is annoying that way.

* * *

  


VI.  


Tattoos are said to be addictive. And that certainly seems to be the truth. When you get one, it’s very likely that you will get another. And when you’ve had your third, not only did you spend loads of money, but also it’s going to be really fucking hard to stop.

 

So, if you ask Eames whether he’s gotten new ones, he will, of course, say _no_. And this is one of the very few instances he will ever tell the truth. And if you ask Eames whether there’s a reason why he hasn’t been inked in the last few years, he will tell so such outrageous lies that you will either call bullshit right at the start or you start wondering whether it’s all true, because – surely – so much idiocy could not simply be made up on the spot. Also, there’s very little dream sharers discard right away.

 

There are several stories that Eames enjoys telling the overly curious. Including:

 

  1. Due to an unfortunate accident during an extraction of a sheikh, which involved several cacti in places no cacti should ever be, he had become terrified of all kind of pointy things. (Should you point out that it’s part of his job to repeatedly stick needles into his arm, he will tell you with a very straight face that, yes, he is that brave and, yes, he is suffering. And there is only one thing he could think of that would relieve his stressed and terrified mind)
  2. After spending time and time again sabotaging the mind of others, he has come to the conclusion that denying himself the addictive adrenaline of getting inked is the only way to redeem himself in the eyes of his god and the Virgin Mary.
  3. Crossing the Sahara on foot had thickened his skin to such an extent that needles just break when they come into contact with it.
  4. He has commissioned the Queen to draw his next tattoo after helping out the MI6 in a case that spanned several months and that had been his only price. The queen, of course, is so very busy at the moment that she has not quite finished it yet, but she likes to send frequent updates. So far he can recognize a few corgis and what might be a butt, but he’s not too sure about it. Because while the queen is magnificent in every way, she had never received art lessons and such is not very good at it.



 

There could be many reasons why Eames stopped getting tattoos. But, as I can now safely tell you, there is only one. And that would be an offhand made by a certain point man who was staring at a picture of their mark (who incidentally was inked all over his body, but Eames didn’t know that):

 

“I don’t like the tattoos”

 

* * *

   


X.  


And for those that enjoy a happy ending: ‘I didn’t mean yours, you _fucking moron_ ’

 

But that will happen quite a bit later, and so is an entirely different story.


End file.
